The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived

  But they were making steady progress. A two-man taskforce. Just like the old days for Hugo Rune VC, DSO, DSM, last man out of ’Nam and first man in at Goose Green. Though not, perhaps, for the Brig.

  Chunky’s military career had been forged from a different metal. During ‘the second lot’ he had taken command of the Army School of Art and Design’s mobile camera obscura division.

  This division catered to soldiers who, although keen on the uniform, ‘had a thing about not getting their fingernails all dirty from handling guns’, and wished to pursue a career in battlefield art.

  They worked within armoured personnel carriers, each of which had been gutted of their weaponry to provide comfortable seating for two artists with sketch pads and carried sufficient rations of paints, linseed oil and turpentine to remain in the field for two weeks without re-supply.

  The Brigadier later went on to greater glory when he volunteered to lead the Army School of Window Dressing’s armoured display window and mannequin trailer into Berlin. When under intense sniper fire he and his company, armed with little more than fifty yards of taffeta, one thousand dressmaking pins and a cardboard box full of price tags, dressed no less than twenty-three shop windows amongst the smoking rubble of the city, to raise the morale of the Allies as they marched in.

  But as ABC once said, ‘That was then and this is now.’

  ‘XR GTI at twelve o’clock,’ bawled Rune.

  ‘Boom,’ went a gun in Chunky’s turret.

  ‘Whoomph!’ went the XR GTI—inflated air-bag and all.

  But none of this was helping Cornelius.

  ‘Help!’ went he.

  And ‘Help!’ went Tuppe, as dark and evil beasties moved in for the kill.

  ‘Hang about,’ said Norman. ‘Perhaps we should have taken a right turn back there. I had no trouble just sort of locking into where Cornelius was and finding him in the police cell, but I seem to be a bit confused now. Dark all of a sudden, isn’t it?’

  Very dark.

  And so many many refugees being force-marched into that nasty wire compound erected around the village green. That wasn’t good. And this was England, after all.

  ‘No!’ declared a quite unanimous one and all. And all.

  ‘Serious disturbance up this end,’ cried a fellow in the uniform of an American marine into his army-surplus field telephone.

  ‘Bzzt-wzzz-zzz,’ received a fellow in a Russian military greatcoat, somewhere near the middle of the marching column (static from the sudden storm probably, or faulty parts).

  ‘What did he say?’ asked the fellow sitting next to the fellow in the Russian military greatcoat. He wore a Dragoon’s uniform, circa 1848.

  ‘Fire over their heads,’ said the military-greatcoat fellow who had been dying to let off a couple of rounds.

  ‘Good one.’

  And the shots rang out.

  And you just don’t do that kind of thing.

  And Charge!

  They’d had enough, these refugees. Driven from their homes by rabid cars, camped all night upon a hilltop, hungry, tired, forced to march at gunpoint.

  Quite enough!

  And so they turned.

  As one.

  Because this was England, after all.

  ‘Back out, retreat!’ Chunky’s men, in their armoured cars and jeeps, now found themselves under attack. Jackboots put the foot hard down upon accelerator pedals. Wheels span, tracks churned tarmacadam.

  A great battle cry rose from the throats of the refugees, like an atavistic howl. A jeep was overturned. Nasty wire netting was ripped aside and trampled underfoot.

  Stirring stuff really.

  And Bramfield wasn’t a large village. And there were thousands and thousands of refugees. They gave chase to the retreating vehicles. They poured into the high street through side-roads, alley-ways, bridle-paths, footpaths, side-paths, cycle-paths, pedestrian-access-only paths, private access-only decoratively-paved paths which lead to bungalows with coach lamps on the gateposts that light up at night when you drive your car in. Down these, the people swarmed.

  By the thousand.

  And all into the high street.

  Much to the surprise, it must be said, of the satanic creatures who were still in the act of falling upon Cornelius and Tuppe.

  Bewildered and outnumbered, these now rose upon great bat-like wings; called obscenities from their beaked mouths; shook scaly fists and defecated fish hooks, razor blades and copies of Hello! Magazine (the James Herbert issue) onto the raging mob beneath.

  The mob, emboldened by adrenalin and sheer weight of numbers, replied with catcalls and footpath gravel.

  ‘We had best be away,’ Tuppe, on the tall boy’s shoulder, called into the tall boy’s ear.

  And as a tattooed vest-wearer swung a waste-paper bin through the window of the village off-licence and things took a very ugly turn, Cornelius agreed that best being away was probably all for the best.

  ‘This is bad, this is very bad.’ Old Claude jigged about in a quiet and hidden corner behind the serviceable big sky nozzle. ‘Those evil beasties will do for poor little Norman. The job won’t get jobbed at all. Very bad it is. So very bad.’

  He ceased his jigging and chewed upon a bony knuckle. ‘Do something, you old fart,’ he told himself. ‘Help the wee boy. You’re the real controller, you know how it all works, do something.’

  Old Claude kicked the big sky nozzle, then hobbled about on one foot. ‘Send him some help. Yes that’s it, that’s it. Beam him down some help. You could do that. You could work out the calculations. Take time, though, take time. Well, don’t stand around like a dildo at a dance camp. Get to it. Get to it.’

  And Old Claude got to it.

  ‘Get to it, Chunky,’ called Hugo Rune. ‘Morris Minor at three o’clock.’

  ‘Bloody crime to shoot up a Morris, doncha think, Rune?’

  ‘Fair game,’ Rune lobbed a hand grenade.

  Somewhere upon high God winced, but knew not why.

  ‘All pretty much done, I think.’ Chunky pulled up his Sherman tank beside that of Rune. ‘Showed the blighters, eh, what?’

  ‘You had best radio for some reinforcements to ring the town around, Chunky. Nothing gets in and nothing gets out, understood?’

  ‘Tickety-boo.’ Chunky did the business. ‘Time for a snifter or two I reckon. Where do you want to set up HQ? Much of the town now gone to ruination. Shame about that hotel. Casablanca Suite, classy affair.’

  ‘The vicarage is still standing,’ Rune observed. ‘Holds a commanding view of the bay.’

  ‘Holds a lot of luggage in the basement too. But decent wine cellar.’

  ‘Perfect then, let us repair there forthwith. I have a call or two to make, then I’ll fill you in on all the details.’

  ‘Good show, old man. Good show.’

  ‘I’m quite lost,’ puffed Cornelius, stumbling through bushes and briars.

  ‘There’s a road up ahead,’ said Tuppe, clinging to the tall boy’s hair.

  ‘There’s a road up ahead. And oh no! There’s a Jeep coming. Duck down, duck down!’

  Cornelius ducked down into unspeakable country stuff. The Jeep sped by.

  ‘We’re safe,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘I am covered in cow poo,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘But we are safe, don’t knock it.’

  The Jeep screamed to a halt and backed up.

  ‘We’re not safe,’ said Tuppe. ‘Knock it as much as you want.’ The Jeep screamed to another halt.

  ‘I can see you,’ called the voice of Norman. ‘Hurry up and get in.’

  Cornelius and Tuppe hurried up and did so.

  Thelma put the Jeep into gear once more and off they all sped together.

  ‘Are you two all right?’ Louise asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Tuppe. ‘The policemen duffed Cornelius up, but then they always do.’

  ‘And I lost all my money again,’ said Cornelius, ‘but then I always do.’

  ‘And
there’s the invasion of monsters from outer space going on,’ said Tuppe, ‘which isn’t helping matters much.’

  ‘I think we should withdraw to a place of safety for a couple of days,’ Cornelius held down his hair. ‘Think things through, make some kind of definite plan.’

  ‘And get your clothes dry-cleaned,’ was Norman’s suggestion. ‘You’re covered in cow poos by the way. You don’t half hum.’

  ‘He does, doesn’t he?’ Tuppe held his nose. ‘But I thought we had a plan. Aren’t we going to blow up the piers?’

  ‘If that’s the plan’, Thelma called back, ‘then we’d better get right onto it. I just picked up a broadcast from the Brigadier on the field radio here. He’s called for his big bulldozers to be brought in, the pylons are coming down tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Cornelius fell back amongst his hair. ‘Then Rune’s moved everything forward.’

  ‘Forward to tomorrow night by the sound of it. And armed men now have all the roads into Skelington Bay blocked off. You can listen to it all going on, if you want.’

  ‘I want,’ Cornelius leaned forward. ‘Could you stop the Jeep, Thelma, and let Tuppe and I ride in the front?’

  ‘I am quite capable of driving, thank you.’

  ‘I know that, I’m asking you a favour, that’s all.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Thelma swerved the Jeep to a halt. She and Louise got out, while Cornelius and Tuppe shinned over into the front seat.

  ‘Are the back tyres OK?’ Cornelius asked. ‘Only they seem a bit soft.’

  ‘We’ll have a look.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Cornelius put the Jeep back into gear and tore off along the lane, ‘for everything.’

  ‘Hang about,’ Norman bobbed up and down in the rear seat. ‘You’ve left the birds behind. They don’t half look angry. Stop the Jeep.’

  Cornelius looked at Tuppe.

  And Tuppe looked at Cornelius.

  ‘I knew you were going to do that,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘But you didn’t say anything.’

  ‘No, because I knew why you were going to do it. You don’t want any harm to come to them. I don’t either.’

  ‘Very touching,’ said Norman, rolling his eyes. ‘But if we can’t stop Hugo Rune, then they’re going to snuff it along with everyone else. And far be it from me to put my four-penny worth in, but I’d say you just reduced our chances of success by a factor of two. Those girls are pretty smart.’

  ‘Which is more than can be said for your hair-do,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘My hair-do? What, can you see me now too?’

  ‘I can, just. But I hope that Rune won’t be able to, at all.’

  Rune and Chunky were punishing the padre’s port in the front garden of the vicarage. Picturesque vicarage, local stone, Georgian flat front with cozy porch. No sign of the dreaded UPVC. Rugs on oak floorboards within and ne’er a hint of a swirly-whirly carpet tile.

  Cane steamer chairs were being sat upon. Hollyhocks waved at the sky, which was blue hereabouts. Bumble bees drifted, spiders dangled, honeysuckle climbed imperceptibly.

  ‘Damn fine port,’ said Chunky, pouring himself another measure. ‘And damn fine tale that you’ve told me. Gold from the sea, eh? Who’d have thought it? Splendid wheeze. Still, can’t say I quite understand the mechanics of the thing. Get the part about electroplating and using the piers as monster electrodes, get the pylons carrying the heavy-duty cables from each pier to the top of Druid’s Tor. Bit baffled by the radio masts connected to the ends though. And where you’re going to get all the electrical energy from.’

  Rune smiled and poured port for himself. But from a different bottle. ‘Many years ago’, said he, ‘I arrived at a theory regarding the afterlife, the nature of the soul, how things functioned on a universal level. I was quite certain that my propositions were correct, but it was necessary for me to put all to the test. And so, in the name of science and the cause of Ultimate Truth, I committed suicide.’

  ‘You did what?’ The Brig took to a fit of coughing. ‘Damn me, Rune, you do talk some unmitigated drivel at times.’

  ‘Nevertheless, that is what I did. My action proved entirely justified, I learned the true nature of the soul and I learned of the fallibility of God, which has all to do with ‘bollocks’ but I shan’t bore you with that here. And I was able to infiltrate a certain Company and gain total control of it.’

  ‘Haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about, Rune.’

  ‘But you shall. What is important for you to know now is that the present controller of this company is organizing the necessary power to energize the piers and draw the gold from the sea. But as this will be happening tomorrow night, instead of Friday night, it is imperative that he be informed of the change in schedule. So I’d like you to deliver a message.’

  ‘Me? How dare you, sir. I’m not some bally messenger boy. Telephone the cove, speak to him yourself.’

  ‘Regrettably that cannot be done, and I cannot deliver the message myself, I am awaiting the arrival of my brother who is flying in from America, to collect a certain item and bring it to me here.’

  ‘Never knew you had a brother, Rune. Big fat bastard like yourself, is he?’

  ‘Identical,’ said sweetly smiling Rune. ‘As are my other brothers, one of which has unaccountably gone missing, but I have mentioned this in the message you must deliver.’

  ‘I’m not delivering any messages, I told you.’

  ‘You’ll deliver this one,’ Rune handed Chunky an envelope. On it were printed the fateful words:

  STRICTLY PERSONAL.

  FOR THE EYES OF THE CONTROLLER

  OF THE UNIVERSAL REINCARNATION

  COMPANY ONLY.

  BY HAND.

  ‘Have another glass of port,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘It will help you on your way.’

  34

  ‘Whoa!’ went Cornelius, applying the brakes.

  ‘Oooh!’ went Tuppe, disappearing onto the floor.

  ‘Aaaagh!’ went Norman, sailing over the windscreen to whack down onto the cliff-top road beyond.

  ‘What is happening?’ Tuppe struggled up and climbed onto the passenger seat.

  ‘Up there,’ Cornelius pointed. ‘Circling above Skelington Bay, look at them.’

  ‘It’s the black beasties that attacked us. What are they, Cornelius?’

  ‘I don’t know what they are, but I’d hazard a guess as to who sent them after us.’

  ‘Look at my overall,’ Norman complained, as he limped back to the Jeep. ‘Charred already and now torn at both knees. And look at my knees: grazed. Really hurts, what a bummer.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Look at them,’ Tuppe pointed. ‘Do you know what they are?’

  Norman squinted towards the circling shapes. ‘They do look familiar. How do they get their wings to work like that? I was looking for a technique of that sort when my dad — aw dear, yes, they are familiar, there were drawings of them in The Necronomicon.’

  ‘Mates of yours, Cornelius,’ said Tuppe. ‘You being Son of Satan and all.’

  ‘Thanks very much. But this further complicates matters. Armed guards ringing the town, cars on the rampage within, and fiends from Hell circling above.’

  ‘Sewers,’ said Norman.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Sewers. When Skelington Bay has its yearly festival, the most popular event, other than the man-powered-falling-into-the-sea competition, is the sewer tour. I’ve been on it, it’s brilliant, we could go down a manhole and enter the town through the sewers.’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Cornelius. ‘I smell bad enough as it is. There has to be another way.’

  ‘We’ve got a Jeep,’ said Tuppe. ‘Why not disguise ourselves as soldiers and drive straight up, saying we’ve got an urgent message for Hugo Rune, or something?’

  ‘Not bad. But not the way I would do it.’

  ‘Oh, excuse me,’ said Tuppe. ‘And what way would you do it?’

 
‘That way,’ Cornelius pointed beyond the cliffs towards the sea. ‘There’s no need for us to enter the town at all. If we were to “acquire” a small boat, we could row it out to sea under cover of darkness, set the charges on the ends of the piers, light the blue touch-paper, then retire to a safe place somewhere near the horizon.’

  ‘I like that,’ said Norman. ‘Do you like that, Tuppe?’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘Are you being sarcastic?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘Certainly not. Blowing up the piers was my idea after all.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Good.’ Tuppe rubbed his little hands together. ‘So, as soon as Norman has gathered all the various chemical components required for the manufacture of powerful explosives, constructed the timing trigger mechanisms, et cetera, and installed these carefully into the boat that you will have acquired, along with all the technical skills and navigational know-how necessary to row and pilot it by night, we’ll be off on our way. Piece of cake, eh, lads?’

  Cornelius took to some thoughtful head-scratching.

  Norman said, ‘Piece of cake.’

  ‘Piece of cake?’ asked the large controller, pushing a gilded plate across the marble top of his big swank desk.

  ‘Piece of cake? Piece of cake?’ Brigadier Algenon ‘Chunky’ Wilberforce (deceased) stamped his military footwear and made fists at the rococo ceiling. ‘You murdered me, you bally bastard. Poisoned me damn port. Bloody un-British way of butchering a fellow. Cad and bounder, so you are. And how come you’re you anyway?’

  ‘You have a message to deliver, I believe,’ said the large controller.

  ‘Message? Message?’

  ‘I saw your name come up on the list of today’s arrivals, I assume that my brother must have, er, sent you.’

  ‘Brother? Suddenly the bastard’s got brothers everywhere. Murderers all. Told the fellow who brought me up in the lift that. Seems your damned brother murdered him too. Familiar looking cove the lift wallah, sure I’d seen him in a film somewhere, Plan Nine from Outer Space, perhaps, couldn’t put a name to his face though.’

  ‘The message.’ The large controller extended a large hand.